Why I Don’t Write About Roses

 I try to write of roses in the sun,

a few short lines to have a little fun,

a well turned little portrait of someone.

I just don’t seem to get those poems done.

A Limerick, a lark, a silly song;

it need not be too clever or too long

but even when the inspiration’s strong,

my rhyme scheme or my meter goes all wrong.

There’s lots of simple things I’d like to say:

perhaps a few remarks about my day.

The sun is shining but I can’t make hay

for you, dear one, are always in my way.

I think of you, then words begin to flow

so easily. I just need to let go

and, while we don’t let our emotion show,

I know you know I know you know I know.

It’s true I should not spend my afternoons

in sordid contemplation of pantoums

but the grace of God is measured in teaspoons

and the Devil’s playing all the jaunty tunes.